The Miracle Is in the Unfolding of the Wings
by evening spirit
Summary: It takes time to trust someone after they had betrayed you. Time and, sometimes, going through serious shit together. Forgiveness is a different beast altogether. And friendship? Friendship can never happen again.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Great thanks to Afgani for encouragement. This story may not be about poo, but it's a bit about Mary Sue Poots, so I hope that counts. :) Also, it was indirectly inspired by a conversation with Anuna and, further prompted by something Wanderingrookie said. Neither of you probably remember, but it doesn't matter, I still consider you among my guides on the neverending road to self-discovery. Please, ignore teh rambling.

The story was supposed to be sad and depressing and I may be very unpleasant toward Grant Ward here and there, but it's written that way because of reasons. I love Grant Ward and will defend him with all the Berzerker rage I possess.

* * *

**The Miracle Is in the Unfolding of the Wings**

**Chapter One**

* * *

_"I have come to accept the feeling of not knowing where I am going. And I have trained myself to love it. Because it is only when we are suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight, that we force our wings to unravel and alas begin our flight. And as we fly, we still may not know where we are going to. But the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not know where you're going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you." _  
**~ C. JoyBell C.**

* * *

It takes time to trust someone after they had betrayed you. Time and, sometimes, going through serious shit together.

Forgiveness is a different beast altogether.

And friendship?

Friendship can never happen again.

* * *

Skye has closed the door to Coulson's bunk and slowly steps down the spiral staircase. Ward is in the kitchen, talking to Jemma.

"Too much excitement for one day, is all." Skye barely hears his voice. His damaged vocal chords never healed properly.

"More like one week," Simmons snorts. "Or a month."

"Or a year," Ward chuckles and they both fall silent.

A year ago... Skye tries to remember where they were a year ago. Mid March. It was before the Hydra reveal, even before their pursuit of Thomas Nash, but after she got shot and subsequently turned into... whatever she is now.

Not a monster.

"A year ago we were a team," escapes her, unnecessarily.

Both Ward and Simmons turn to her, noticing her presence. Ward purses his lips.

"We are again," says Jemma, without conviction.

Team is in shreds. Coulson is losing his mind. Much slower than Garrett had but Ward says it's the same thing. Skye fights her inner demons sometimes winning, more often losing, while Fitz tries to fight his own body. They have no idea where May is and Triplett showed up last week for a day, had a shower, decent meal, slept for ten hours straight and said he had to follow a lead. After which he promptly vanished. Well, notvanished -vanished, but disappeared from their lives again. At least he reports once a day with short meaningless notes, aimed only to let them know he's still alive. It's a good thing that they have Ward.

That still sounds strange.

If half a year ago someone told the team they would rely on Ward ever again, Skye would have punched the living shit out of them and Jemma would concoct a mixture to pour all over their ugly lying faces in order to make sure they would suffer long an thoroughly. But then things happened, Raina and Quinn and then Skye's father... She still shudders at the thought. They needed Ward and, along the way, they figured things about him, some of the horrors of his past. Eventually, what he had said so long ago, that one day she would understand – kind of happened.

Kind of. Not entirely and Skye can't imagine she will ever be able to comprehend how, being an adult and knowing right from wrong, he could follow Garrett and Hydra. She's tried to explained it to herself, that he didn't exactly know what he had gotten himself into, that Garrett manipulated the truth, telling him half-lies, leaving things to interpretation, unsaid. Beyond that Skye has decided not to dwell. This explanation may not be enough, but if she thinks too much about it, she begins to hate Ward all over again for his stupidity if nothing else, and she really can't afford that now. He's the only protector they have.

Jemma shakes her head.

"I'll get him his pills," she mutters, meaning Fitz. Who is probably down in the lab, obsessing about one thing or another. She grabs the water bottle and a vial from the cabinet and walks out, head bowed.

"Take it easy." Ward calls after her and she turns, looks back at him with a sad smile and shrugs.

"Sometimes the things he says get to me, you know," she admits and they all know how nasty Fitz can sometimes be, these days.

"It's because we all had to wake up in the middle of the night," Ward reminds the truth they all know about, but sometimes forget. "Lack of sleep, he takes it worse than we do. It's not his fault."

Of course those words bring about awkward silence again.

They all think whose fault it really is and they will probably never stop, no matter how many times Fitz tries to prove that the pod. Was supposed. To float. And Ward knew that. Ward neither confirms nor denies and that's one more thing Skye hates him for, because if he said that's true, that he had tried to save them, not kill them, she would probably believe. She would want to believe. But all he says, in his annoyingly quiet voice, is that he isn't sure. He'd had orders. He doesn't remember. Fitz is the one who may have trouble remembering things, damn it, not Ward!

Jemma nods and leaves, and Ward stands at the counter and rubs his temple, his eyes closed.

"You okay?" escapes Skye's lips and he straightens up, blinks a couple of times, squares his jaw.

"Fine," he utters. Turns to the faucet and pours himself a glass of water which he promptly downs in one gulp. "Gotta take these off," he gestures vaguely to his assault gear and brushes past her, not looking up.

She can see, though, in the way his lips are pursed, eyes squinted and all the muscles in his neck and jaw clenched – that he's in pain. He gets those headaches sometimes, that he never complains about. It's almost as if he welcomes them, just another punishment for all his crimes. Skye doesn't intend to deny him that.

Next time she sees him is when she's serving dinner. Fitz and Simmons are at the table already, Fitz muttering to himself, his eyes moving rhythmically left-and-right, left-and-right. Cortical visual impairment and left side mild spasticity is what he has to show off for his in-field experience. That and occasional emotional outbursts but they are mostly attributed to fully justified post traumatic depression, not to the brain damage per se.

Jemma describes his plate for him when Skye puts it on the table. Pasta all around with meatballs in tomato sauce in the middle.

"I can see that!" he snaps. He can. When he focuses or turns his face away, looking from the corner of his eye, he may control his nystagmus. And when he's not as tired and restless as he is now. But then, the doctors he occasionally visits say that his vision is improving, so maybe he sees better already. They say he may recover most of it, within the first year since the injury. It is going to be a year really soon.

Skye watches him eat, then she notices that Jemma glares at Fitz with the same intensity, as if looking at him would help him see better. Jemma then notices Skye watching her and smiles faintly, shakes her head and shrugs. Skye puts the plate in front of her.

She has prepared four meals but Coulson has woken up and apparently decided to join them. He seems so normal when he sits down at the table and asks Fitz about his progress with gravitonium neutralizer. Nothing like he looked at midnight, disheveled, head filled with visions of Armageddon, speaking in riddles. After which he ran out of the Bus and managed to steal a car and drove thirty miles to a new – and way too near for their safety – Hydra hideout they had no previous knowledge of. Only when he got there, they managed to finally track him down. And then, they had to deal with two-men security detail and a few lab workers – who were now in Billy Koenig's custody. Actually, mostly Ward had to deal with them, while Skye tried to diffuse Coulson.

"I know what you're thinking, Skye," Coulson smirks at her now. "And I'm telling you this – it will all be alright."

Is it a vision of the future, though, or wishful thinking – Skye wonders as she divides the remaining two portions of their dinner into three, to serve them all.

* * *

t.b.c.

**A/N:** There is a second part of this story. But. I'm an evil writer and things get worse from here. And I would really, really like to give a hopeful and positive ending, but all I can come up with is either even worse than earlier, or it's incredibly cheesy. And I hate cheesy.

What I'm trying to say is, if any of you would be so kind as to give me a hand with this ending, like a Beta-reader, only the one who might give me suggestions concerning plot and characterization, I would appreciate it enormously.

Please?


	2. Chapter 2

**The Miracle Is in the Unfolding of the Wings**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

When she sits down, the others are already chewing and swallowing – all of them, except for Ward, who glares at his plate like it spouted horns, nostrils flaring, mouth half-open, breathing too shallow and too fast. He swallows and then, all of the sudden, he's on his feet and running to the sink, where he heaves, the sound making Skye gag on the meatball she's already put into her mouth.

"What?" Fitz's head snaps up, his eyes wide and unfocused.

Jemma grabs his wrist and pins it to the table. "Ward is sick, it's nothing."

Coulson glares at Skye and Skye does her best to swallow the meatball that suddenly feels like it's the size of a volleyball. Simmons's words ring in her ears, "Ward is sick, it's nothing." Is that what they all think?

She stands up reluctantly, because she's not a heartless monster and Ward is kind of the member of their team again, although not quite. She tries not to think of Fitz's unfocused gaze, of Jemma's nightmares about drowning, of her own sleepless nights, when she's afraid Ward will garrote someone again and force her to go with him into the sunrise.

Or that she will wake up three days later, tied up, in the cell, with no memory of what had happened, with him sitting there, his face sad, a bottle of water for her in hand...

Ward's back is hunched over the sink and the hand he's leaning on shakes. There's no vomit in the sink, only water and he's still dry-heaving but only a little and grips his head with the other hand. Skye wets the towel in cold water from the faucet next to Ward's head and then she puts it on his nape and he jumps away from her and slams his back against the fridge handle. The kitchen on the Bus is really small and tight, not much place to run.

"Sorry," Skye mutters, "thought this would help."

Ward doesn't reply, instead he squeezes his head with both hands and slides down to the floor with a moan and a whimper. He's still heaving occasionally. Skye feels someone push through and there is Jemma Simmons, with a syringe in hand.

"Ward?" she says with surprising gentleness. "Grant." He looks up, eyes blood-shot, pupils blown, dark in his sheet-white face. "I have a pain medication here. I need to give you a shot. You'll feel better."

He looks at her as if he couldn't comprehend what her intentions are, like he's afraid she's trying to trick him and then something in his face flickers, he closes his mouth, casts his eyes down, to the floor and nods, once, curtly. When Simmons pulls up his sleeve he recoils but struggles to remain still, only the very visible tremble of his muscles betraying his distress. Skye thinks that if he wasn't Ward, she would feel sorry for him right now. She would want to wrap him in a warm blanket and put out the lights so they wouldn't disturb him and she would maybe stroke his back and whisper soothing words until he would fall asleep. Her subconsciousness conjures such images and she willfully shakes them off. She doesn't want to give him consolation. She doesn't need to feel miserable for denying him that.

Simmons apparently shares her sentiment, because as quickly as she has given him the medication, she stands up and backs out of the tiny kitchen, leaving Ward crumpled on the floor, still shivering and so terribly, painfully alone.

Skye hears Coulson's voice behind her back, quiet and filled with heartbreaking agony. "I know everything. I see everything that happened, all cuts, each bruise, every tear not wiped by a loving hand. All the lies, the promise of friendship that was a lie, the prospect of a better life that was a ruse, the exploit, molding, shaping, sculpting to fit the form that doesn't fit, cutting off protruding feelings like limbs. Creating a tool, a toy, deformed, mangled, destroyed. Discarded. No child wants a broken toy. Broken toys belong in trash." He stops suddenly.

Skye and Jemma are glaring at him as he stands, Fitz also sits quiet, rocking, blinking.

"You should go back upstairs," Skye whispers, knowing very well that she won't be heard or understood, because it's happening again, they need to lock Coulson up, so he doesn't hurt someone or himself. His mind has gone out the window again.

But he looks at her with clarity in his eyes and shrugs.

"I can't explain it." A tear rolls down his cheek. "But it would hurt so much to live like this, never loved, never mean a thing to anybody."

Skye feels like sucker-punched. Her mind goes back to her childhood, to all the foster families she was with, for too short a time. She thinks about never belonging anywhere and how much it hurt to see other kids being brought to school by their parents, kissed good bye on the cheek or on the forehead, waved at with a smile. The woman Skye dared to call "mom" had braided her hair before the first day at a new school but they hadn't gotten to the moment where she would give her a warm, motherly hug. That hug she got later, from sister Laura at Saint Agnes. She would get it after each foster home fiasco, Sister Laura would hold her all through those most difficult first nights. It wasn't love. It wasn't what she had wanted or needed. It wasn't enough.

But deep inside, in a place too dark to look into, Skye knows Coulson isn't talking about her. She stands there, remembering, feeling, hurting and she hears shuffling behind her back. Faint groan and a sigh and heavy uneven steps and Ward brushes past her, leaning against the wall, head bowed. He walks straight to his bunk and quietly closes the door.

That's when she has to face the truth. That Coulson wasn't talking about her at all.

Of course, she knows about his family, his brothers. They all know it now, the problem is, Skye isn't sure they believe it all. She had doubts. How much of it is real and how much was made up for one purpose or another, who would know now, between Hydra and Garrett, what was the truth and what was only a cover? When she found out, right after he told her, she learned that he had just brutally murdered someone and then he kidnapped her. He all but admitted to being a bad person, tried to blame it on bad childhood experiences and then did bad, really bad things. No amount of trauma would excuse all his atrocities.

Still, Skye doesn't want to be the bad person in all this. And punishing Ward over and over again kind of makes her evil. She casts a glance at Jemma and she sees something in the same vein in her friend's eyes. Then Jemma nods at Ward's closed door like she wants to say, "go" and Skye braces herself and goes.

She hasn't been prepared for what she sees. Ward hasn't even gotten to properly lay down, he's part seated, part sprawled, part laying on his rack, his legs dangling awkwardly, neck bent at an angle that must be really uncomfortable. He's breathing through his mouth and they are dry and chapped. Skye isn't sure what to do. She doesn't want to touch him. But then she tries to imagine – what if it was Fitz? And she knows.

She nears him and wants to hook her arm under his. She barely touches him when he bolts awake.

"What'd you need?" he mumbles and tries to get up.

"No." Skye stops him. "I just wanted to help you lay more comfortably."

"What?" He looks at her from under furrowed brow, obviously struggling to understand what she says through the pain in his head, and failing.

"Oh, for crying out..." Skye grabs his pillow, that's crumpled and tucked in a corner and straightenes it, smooths and places on the bed. Then she gestures for him to lay down on it. "Need some help?"

"What are you doing?" he looks at her like she's attempting to explain rocket science.

Skye just shakes her head. "Get over here." She has to physically push him onto the bed. He's so worn out that he doesn't really resist, his furrowed brow the only indication that he doesn't quite get what's going on.

He still doesn't look too comfortable, what with his legs dangling from the side of the bed, heavy, military-issue boots firmly strapped on his feet. Skye simply sits and takes to untangling the laces.

"Wha-? What'r you doin'?" Ward pulls himself up again. "Stop it, I can doit m'self."

"Oh, for god's sake!" Skye snaps. "Haven't anyone ever taken care of you before?"

The look he gives her makes her feel like she's speaking Chinese. No, not Chinese, Chinese he understands, at least two most prominent, Mandarin and Cantonese. More like she speaks the Dorthaki. He glares at her as if the concept of being taken care of was entirely foreign to him. And Skye doesn't want to think about the reasons why it might be true.

"Yeah, I get it," she hears herself ramble. "You're a specialist, you're cut out of black Kevlar and if someone tried to pamper you, you'd lose some of that lethal edge. But..." Coulson's words, those about tears never wiped by a loving hand, force themselves into her mind and suddenly her throat is too constricted to speak. Ward doesn't help, his eyebrows drawn together and his eyes wary. "When you were little?" Skye tries, looking straight at him. "Who tucked you to bed?"

"Grams." Ward shrugs. "But she died when I was five."

Skye only sighs. She wants to ask – and since then? But she doesn't. The laces on one boot are untangled and she loosens the uppers and starts to slide the boot off Ward's foot.

"No," he mutters again. "Don't. You don't have to do this."

"Shut up and help me out a little." Skye nudges his knee and pulls. Yeah, so feet after a whole day in a heavy wear have their specific odor but, surprisingly, she doesn't mind. She takes off the other boot as well then pulls the blanket up, gently pushing Ward back onto the pillow. She tucks it around his arms.

"Why are you doing this?" he rasps and it sounds a bit like she's doing something to hurt him. His tone makes her uncomfortable.

"Move a little," she pats his arm and sits on the edge of the bed. He skitters away, too much. More than is necessary for her to fit in, almost as if he was afraid. Skye lays a hand on his chest, grounding him. He stops breathing. "Ward, I'm not gonna hurt you," she declares.

He shakes his head. "No. I know." His breath rate increases. "You don't have to. You don't... I will... I will protect you no matter what. You don't need..." His voice breaks. He can't verbalize what he feels and Skye puts her finger on his lips. He shakes it off. "No!" he raises, pushes the blanket away. "You know, I am fine already. The shot Simmons gave me, I'm fine. I can do... What do you want me to do?"

Skye stands before him, both hands on his arms. "Stop, Ward, stop! You don't have to do anything. You just need to rest. Please, lay down."

"But... Why?"

Oh, god, what's she supposed to say?

"We need you fit, you know. If you are supposed to protect us, we need you to get better, okay. So just rest."

His face falls. "I'm sorry," he mouths. "I'm so sorry. Didn't mean to get... sick. Really, I feel fine," he whines but his voice sounds feeble, weak. "I'm really, really sorry."

Finally, after a bit more struggle, Skye manages to get him to lay down, repeating nonsense like, that he'll better help them when he's rested and that he's doing it for them and that he owes it to them. When she walks out of his bunk, she feels like she's about to puke.

Jemma and Fitz sit at the table, each of them nursing a cup of steaming tea. Fitz turns his face sideways, his eyes searching for Skye. In this position, looking to the side, it's easier for him to control his nystagmus and actually see something. And it is Ward who's to blame for that. But how can she blame someone so miserable?

Skye sits at the table and feels tears streak down her face. She doesn't cry, not with hitching of breath, or feeling that sucking void in her stomach, no. But the tears just flow. Jemma stands up, pours another cup of tea and places it before Skye. It's steaming and the smell sooths her a bit.

"Will you eat, or do you want me to warm it up for you later?" Jemma asks and Skye realizes the table is empty.

"Where?..." She doesn't finish, but gestures to Coulson's empty seat.

"Went to his bunk and locked up. Voluntarily."

"Did he say anything more?"

"That it was like a vision, a brief one. Felt as if Ward's whole life was pushed into him, all the memories and feelings and the way he saw the world, but with a benefit of an objective outsider point of view and that he doesn't know what to do with it, because he doesn't have that objectivity when looking at his own deeds and that those were awful. That he's an awful person."

"Coulson is not an awful..."

"I know. He says maybe May will understand and that she'll be here tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Exactly."

They sit in silence, sipping hot tea and thinking and Skye wonders if what the others think is the same as what she thinks.

* * *

t.b.c.


End file.
